Dor
by ParlorGamesToMe
Summary: It starts in the 40's, takes a detour in the 50's, and roars back up again in the 21st century. It's about more than finding Bucky- it's about reviving him, and sometimes a body needs blood to fix it's imbalances. Sam, Steve, and Natasha will do what they have to do.


**I.**

He's not a man—he's a mangled translation, a ghost story, a tragedy unfolding in three parts: a first act that ends in death; the second a haunting in a growing graveyard; the third a murder in halves, the dénouement a twisted realization. There's a crucial timeline he's missing, a list of characters, slug lines trailing down the page.

He tries to say this in whispers in the park—_war, friend, fall_—kicking aside the rocks in his path, but he doesn't know the language. He can't even define the words, connecting the syllables into a whole. If he peels back the foundation of his speech, he fears finding the English, the final link. He haunts himself. He's specter in a body that he doesn't entirely recognize as his own. And he keeps talking but he doesn't even know what's coming out of him.

When a middle-aged woman places her big, black sunglasses onto a wooden bench, shifting them aside for an instant, he slips over and snatches them up. They fit him well enough as he keeps walking, burrowing his metal hand deeper into his sleeve. He can't form the explanation for it, no matter what language he chooses, but there's an urge for concealment that he can't circumvent. He needs the façade, the shadow, the rickety front porch and crumbling overhang. The face isn't his if all the shapes don't align. He needs a coating for his vessel, a magic show in flesh and blood and thought. They peeled back a skin curtain in a moral flaying; his dove soul flew out of sleeves, over heads, back across the room into a bone-cage.

There is nothing but the task, but the matter at hand. Someone needs the wooden audience staring at the box of dismembered person. Someone needs a tree-ringed spine under a near-coffin. There is a third act, after the obediently wondrous dove, the reassembled man: the miracle-bringer must make himself disappear. He hides himself behind glass, his reflection freezing in fractals.

He passes two children, boys, and has to look away. The urge undefines him; if a universal reasoning exists, he can't untangle it. Sometimes friends die. Sometimes they don't. Sometimes there's nothing worse than survival. Unconsciously, he trails behind them, adjusting his footsteps. A tall woman with short blonde hair nudges them away, eying him harshly.

So, he walks by himself, eyes staring ahead through the black. He speaks in tongues— _ice, thaw, dissipate_—and hums a melody. Even sings to himself, just to hear the sound, to find and dissect his voice. The whole is different from the parts, he tells himself. Some machines keep whirring even when cogs disappear. He speaks in smoke.

Some people keep living in the same old broken house; keep mending the same stone-cracked windows; keep sleeping with same spirits above their heads. They like the wind howling, the walls bleeding ectoplasm, the kitchen floor splattered with graveyard dirt. So maybe he's not the resident. So maybe he doesn't live in this house. He stretches his shadow over walls, obscuring photographs. A ghost story needs three things: a tragedy, an adjacent victim, and a voice to spread the story. Some people play more than one part. They can be the death, the victim, the tale.

Well, he knows that there are monsters and there are people. A person can easily become a monster, can transmogrify, but it's a whole different extraction to disassemble the claws, the sharp teeth in snapping jaws, the flesh-hunger. There's a secret that he won't let himself in on: some monsters keep putting back on their flayed skins.

They hollowed him, put something inside, and he can't wrench it out entirely. They made him; and he's been a man and he's been a vessel, his mouth welded shut except for accidental creaks—_gun, knife, bridge_.

Well, he's more of a travesty than a tragedy; even the museum-faced incarnation wore bloody skin.

Before he knows it, his hands are drawn to glass: he breaks a window—somehow, his brutal hand keeps itself from ripping away the door. He closes his eyes, remaking wires. The car hums. It welcomes him inside.

And the roads change. They're like a childhood memory from a backseat, the raindrops trailing down distorted windows. He doesn't know what he's missing, if he's missing anything. He keeps one hand on the wheel, the other tucked away in his sleeve. A voice on the radio lectures about comets trailing across skies, their bodies disintegrating for the sake of marvels.

**II. **

"He didn't kill me," Steve frowns as he folds his hospital gown.

"So, what, we should throw him a party? Jump out of a cake? He almost _did_ kill you, man," Sam replies, furrowing his brow. He turns away from Steve, shutting off the music. He plucks his iPod out of its station, slipping it into his back pocket.

"All I'm saying is that I didn't pull myself out of the water. Nobody one else saw me fall. I think he's in there, Sam. I think I found _Bucky_." He takes one last look at his hospital bed.

"He also almost murdered you," Sam adds helpfully, closing the door behind him. Though he wants it to be a joke, the intention doesn't transfer. He's not smiling. "Look, it's not that I don't want you to find your friend. I'm just worried there's nothing for you to find. He messed you up pretty bad—I don't want to give him the chance to finish what he started."

"So you don't approve."

"That's not what I said. Whatever happens, I'll have your back. I'm just making sure that no knives get there before I do." Sam pulls open the broad, oak hospital door and ushers Steve out into the hungry flashes of cameras.

**III.**

He watches the windows over the rim of his mug of coffee. As the sky darkens, the customers lesson, growing harsher. Five muscled, scarred men pass him, giving him a careless glance. Even they cannot keep their gaze on him long enough. His eyes narrow into slits. When he finds his reflection, he thinks of wolves tugging on human skin, their feral bodies leaking out through seams.

He reaches into the pocket of his hoodie, his metal hand shifting coins, waiting to summon them from unfamiliar spaces, to turn the commonplace into a trick. Things sneak away from him. A red-haired woman slips into the booth seat across from him.

"I borrowed your bullet, James," she says, smiling wryly at him. His eyes widen and he throws his shoulders back against his seat, preparing for defense. In the same second, he composes himself, adjusting his human skin. "Do you remember my name or did they wipe that too?"

His syllables fall into Russian. "You are someone to… to the man in the museum?" He frowns, scanning her body, assessing the threats of her existence. It takes a second before he realizes that she is unarmed. Raising an eyebrow, she gives him a mercurial half smile.

"I don't need weapons to defeat you. I am a friend of yours, or I was, though I'm sure that means nothing to you," she tells him, her face blank. "There's no shame in unraveling. Not around me."

"I didn't kill you," he says, wondering if he's even disappointed.

"No," she agrees, "but you almost killed my friend. He was yours once, I think. Still is, but that's why I've come to talk to you."

The waitress, a tired woman with a mole on her chin and a blonde bun, shuffles over to them. "Sir, does your friend want anything?"

Soundlessly, his mouth falls open, so the woman speaks for him, reverting back to English: "A cup of coffee would be wonderful."

"Of course," the blonde woman sighs, as if a miracle has been requested. "I'll have that right up for you."

"I don't know you," he tells her in a soft protest. "You weren't in the museum with him."

"Yes, you're right—I've taken great steps to ensure history doesn't remember me. We're the same in that way: we erase ourselves."

In his pocket, he traces the shape of a knife.

"You won't kill me," she informs him nonchalantly, as if she's mapped out the cycle of his life. "You haven't figured that out yet, though,"

"You don't know me," he snaps, a child's retort.

"James," she says, her face a girl-mask.

"You don't know me!" He drives the knife into the space between her fingers. Sighing, she sends him an unimpressed glance. She picks it up. Inspects it like a teacher would a student's lackluster test. Traces the blade with her fingers.

"Oh no," she says in monotone, "you've wounded me."

"You don't know me, you don't know me, _you don't know me_," he repeats, over and over in a mechanical mantra that turns into soft mewling. One of the bikers five booths down keeps standing up and sitting back down, his eyes on the woman. She gives him a wave and an alluring smile; when she turns away, she flattens the expression. He stops—he's not throwing her through windows, not tightening his fingers against her throat, not plucking her heart from her chest, and he's not sure why.

The waitress slides a mug over to the red-haired woman, filling it up the brim. "Sugar's on the side, honey." Without even looking at the other woman, she heads down the aisle.

"And cream?" The red-haired woman tilts her head, calling after the departing waitress.

"You hate that stuff," he says without thinking. He halts like a robot running out of battery.

"See," she sends him a feline grin, "you know me, James."

"Don't call me that."

"What would you prefer? You don't think you're Bucky, not yet. Do you want me to refer to you by your imposed name? Do you want me to call you what they did? Verbalize your status as a weapon? I'm here to disarm you."

"I'm not a machine," he says again without thinking. Her words seem to draw out speech from him, to materialize the lost.

"No, you're a man under all that," she nods. "I'm not the only one that sees that. There's someone coming for you. I gave him the steps to reassemble your mind, the instances before you changed, the blueprint.

"I'm not here just to see you, to tell you who's coming as some sort of gesture of good faith. I'm here to warn you: if you even think of harming him, I will stop you in whatever way I have to."

Tilting her head, she examines his face, wordlessly assessing his posture, his countenance, his expression. He doesn't speak. She takes a sip of coffee. Gives the waitress a smile when the woman throws a bunch of creamer she'll never use in front of her.

"He's different than I am, in a way," she states, placing the knife in between them, interlacing her fingers. "He knew you _before_. I found you after at the midway point."

They sit together in silence; she gets a refill while his full mug sits untouched. Sometimes, his fingers stretch towards her face, and he has to summon them back. Maybe he'll kill her. Maybe he won't. She watches him like he wears his timeline across his skin.

"They took your words, too," she remarks. "I think this is the most you've spoken in a long time." Impassively, she finishes her coffee, throwing down enough money to cover both hers and his.

"I'm doing this for you, too," she informs him, picking herself up. "Hurting him is like slicing your own skin." She kisses him on the cheek, gently. Before he leaves the booth, he carves a name in the seat: _Natalia_.

**IV.**

The next day, Natasha catches Sam and Steve at an old, familiar diner. She gives Sam a look, and he happily slides over.

"I'm guessing you didn't come here for the food," he says wryly as a blonde woman walks by carrying a plate of grease with bacon on the side.

"I just wanted some coffee," she replies. "Maybe some pie. Can I see your menu?" Sam nods; he's eying the blueberry pancakes of a woman two booths over.

Inscrutably, she stares at Steve over a red-checked menu.

"What?" He places his menu to the side. Her lips curl into a lazy smile. Before he can speak, a waitress with a mole on her chin lumbers on over to their table.

"What'll it be for you?" She pulls out a pad, the pen already in her hand. Her eyes glaze over.

"I'm thinking blueberry pancakes, hash browns, a side of bacon," Sam tells her. "Oh, and some more coffee, please." As soon as she scribbles it down, she listlessly eyes Natasha.

"Just coffee, please," Natasha requests, "Actually, and some apple pie." She gives Steve a dry smile, biting her lip. The waitress nods.

"I'll have buttermilk pancakes with a side of eggs and a side of fresh fruit, please," Steve orders. "Thank you." He hands her a stack of menus, which she accepts.

"Of course, of course," the waitress says. She cocks her head, then pauses staring at Natasha. "I guess last night's coffee wasn't enough for ya, huh? Though maybe it's more of the company than the coffee—these men are much nicer lookin' than that the other guy. Cleaner. Probably more sober." She walks away, guffawing. Natasha draws her lips together in a tight line. She drops her hands, arranging them palms out on her thighs.

"Natasha, do you want to explain what just happened?" Steve asks, his tone frighteningly reminiscent of Sam's mother. The expression on his face alerts her that he already knows the answer. Instead of speaking, she tilts her head, indicating a graffiti'd carving near Steve's neck. _Natalia._

"I haven't been entirely honest with you," she admits, chewing her lip. Steve lets out a small, unsurprised laugh. He folds his arms, showcasing his impressive biceps; she's suddenly grateful for all of her espionage training, because she can say the next part with a blank face. "I didn't know your friend, Bucky—I knew James Barnes, the Winter Soldier, back in the 50's."

"You were born in the 80's, I thought," Steve frowns, "so when you called me a fossil…"

"It was a good joke—I couldn't help it. Besides, I'm an antique," she replies, "Vintage. Perfectly in place in any decade."

Sam's squinting at her, and he's sporting an amused half-smile.

"Am I the only one who _isn't_ immortal?" He raises an eyebrow. Steve folds his hands, waiting for her to elaborate.

Taking a deep breath, she continues, "I was different, before all of this. They changed us, physically, mentally, chemically. Made us into things unlike ourselves. He trained me, but it was more than just that—we were…involved. In the end, I found a way out, and I took it. I guess he didn't get that chance. I didn't hear about him for years after that—I thought he was dead. Seemed like it, anyway. He came back for an instant in the 70's, just in time to take out a promising European political figure. I was in America at the time, and the news was a rumor, but they mentioned a metal hand and I knew. By the time I got over there, he was gone. And then he returned a few years later, and again, and again. He kept coming back. He kept dying." She let out a sound that must have been a laugh.

"I believe what I see. There's no point in keeping false hope, in chasing after ghosts. Well," she tilted her head, her hair covering an eye. She traced an outline on her abdomen, fabric covering a scar, "I got my proof. More than once, actually. It should have healed by now. I'm still unsure why it didn't."

Steve closes his eyes. He folds his hands together. By the time he looks up, she's composed herself, hair tucked behind her ear, eyes blank, one hand resting on the table.

She peruses a plastic placard detailing different types of cookies and pies. "I should have gotten strawberry instead of apple."

The waitress slides their drinks down the table. She adds a plethora of little creamers. Before Steve and Sam can thank her, she's gone.

"I'm sorry," Steve says finally. She shuffles a tiny creamer from one hand to the other until it looks as though she's snatched it from existence, a commonplace enchantment.

"There's nothing to be sorry for," she tells him. Sam later discovers the creamer in his pocket.

Instead of talking, Sam makes sure to keep his limbs loose, his smile natural, his eyes following their normal patterns. He knows what it's like to lose someone, even in degrees, to think they're right beside you until they hit the ground. Apologies don't exorcise tragedies; they just make them realer. He takes a few brown paper napkins, folds them a little, and places them in front of her in an offering of sorts. She doesn't say a word.

They're halfway through their food when she finally reveals it, dangling her fork, apple nearly falling onto her plate: "He's looking for you, too."

"Excuse me?" Steve says, wiping the corner of his mouth.

"We both know you understood me." She takes another bite of pie. Blinks. "I want to make sure that you know what you'll find. That you'll want to find it."

By the time they leave the diner, separating in the parking lot, Natasha's palms bleed in crescent moons.

**V.**

When Steve wakes up—four hours of sleep, a miracle—he switches on the television. He'd been dreaming that night, all the vision black and white. He dreamt that he was dead, that there were flowers in his stead. People were sitting by his grave, a mother, a father, a friend. His coffin was all wrong, tinier, barely five feet long. They had to work and work to stuff him inside. He was clawing at the wood, but his hands were small, too small, and he couldn't even find the strength to scream, but he could see the people just the same. And then, he was in the sky, his voice a howling wind. He tried to call for them to see him, wrapping his airs around shoulders. His friend had turned to look at him, but he couldn't answer: someone had welded metal to his lips. His friend fell to the ground, tearing away dirt with his bare hands. It didn't take long for him to find the corpse. When he wrenched Steve out, cradling that old body, he took him to a river and floated them on down. They didn't stop until they met ice, the two of them freezing until it came time for them to thaw.

That's why he puts on the news, to see something else, to find a tragedy to prevent. Sam knocks at his motel room door. Steve hasn't even locked it, just in case someone would come to call. With a smile, a real actual smile, he lets Sam inside. The man is wearing a pair of shorts and a tight grey shirt. Sweat drips down his forehead.

"I'm guessing you went without me," the blond man remarks.

"You look like hell," Sam says, but his eyes don't relay the humor. "It's eight o' clock—I would have though you'd have run to California and back by now."

"You look like you just did," Steve teases, shutting the door behind his friend. "Smell like it, too."

"Oh man, Captain America just made fun of me," Sam gasps. "To think I thought you were about freedom and inequality, picking on a poor innocent man! That's a truth that needs to make it into the Smithsonian. I think I'm going to call the papers. Give them an exposé."

Before Steve can say anything, the television seems to grow louder. A somber man with an impressive comb over gravely surveys a theoretical audience.

"After the infiltration of an organization known as HYDRA, the American intelligence community faces an enormous problem: rebuilding a long-damaged system. However, we cannot know for sure the actual scope of the operation, as most HYDRA agents have chosen to commit suicide in lieu of revealing the ultimate truths. In an upstate New York prison, we thought we may have finally gotten a well-deserved instance of good luck.

"After Robert Duncan, Grant Barker, Leah Lane, and Marcus Terrence were taken into custody, we finally received several pieces of secret information thanks to cooperation of Hydra agents; all of that fell apart this morning. It has been reported that a single man stormed their prison and slaughtered each and every HYDRA agent inside—a total of twenty-two—including these four crucial informants. He also subdued three guards, one of whom succumbed to their injuries soon after. One has not woken up. The final guard gave us a statement."

A picture of a round, dark-haired man flashes over the screen. His voice emerges muffled, so each word he says floats across the screen, "He was quick, man, so quick. Didn't see him at first. The man was all shadow—threw me aside like a watermelon. Is that the right metaphorical thing? Watermelon?

"Hand felt cold and hard, all shiny. Well, I didn't see nothin' else but dark. He got Helen and Frank and I was on the ground and couldn't move my legs or nothin'. I heard the screams, though, a lot of 'em. Tried to crawl on over, but I couldn't move fast. I saw the blood though, and he was gone. Left nothin' but bodies and I can't talk no more. Let me sleep. Let me sleep."

"Truly, a brave man," the newscaster says, adjusting his hair. "Stay with us for any further developments. Now, Cara, you're on the other end with a fascinating story: how a baby monkey filed his owner's taxes and why it went unnoticed for four years."

"Well, shit," Sam says. "I guess we're heading over to upstate New York."

"I guess we are," Steve says, gathering all his things into a modest bag. He meets Sam outside by the car, where Natasha's already waiting inside, sitting shotgun. She's dividing a fragrant orange into pieces, popping one into her mouth.

"I'm guessing you heard the news," she says dryly. For some reason, she's wearing a crisp tan skirt, a red woman's suit jacket, and a white blouse. Sitting next to her are a pair of frighteningly high red heels.

"No eating in the car," Steve tells her. In response, she defiantly devours another piece, then offers one to him and Sam. They both take them.

"So, upstate New York," she says as Steve pulls out of the parking lot. She plugs Sam's iPod into a device in the car, and his music resounds. "You know exactly where you're going?"

"We'll figure it out," Steve replies.

"You know there isn't actually a facility there where HYDRA agents were actually being held, right? It's a front. I don't even think that was a real guard on TV. I guess someone leaked the information—there's good money in that and no big system to prosecute them—and the government spun it a bit. We're actually going to have to go underground."

"How do you know he's going to even be there?" Sam asks.

"Deception's my job—don't look so shocked. And I know that there are a hell of a lot more HYDRA agents in there. All of the ones being questioned? The ones sharing? They're barely bottom tier. No doubt he's going to go in further, kill as many as he can, and I'm not entirely inclined to stop him. We've got to go and grab him while we have this open window."

"And you know precisely where this prison is? And how to get into it?" Steve doesn't take his eyes off the road.

"Of course I do," she informs him. He can't help but smile. "I don't need a cover to get in, thankfully. Although you should really get out and let me drive the car, grandpa. You're not even getting to fifty."

Five minutes later, she's sitting behind the wheel, driving just about the same speed as Steve. She can't help but give him grief—that's the cost of her friendship, or so she's realizing.

The three of them don't talk much, but they do sing when one of Sam's favorite songs comes on. After Steve found out his friend liked it, he maybe listened to it over and over—it was relaxing. And Natasha, well, she's spent more time in the living world than any of them. Of course she knows it.

They don't really question it—the singing. Instead, she drums her fingers against the steering wheel, her voice rising. It's not bad at all—none of them are. Their voices join into something close to beautiful.

Still, they keep switching back to the news, just in case, but they only get things about big games and news fluff.

They drive until the car's running on fumes. Only then do they pull over on another exit, winding into a gas station parking lot. While Steve gets gas, Natasha ducks away, holding a phone to her ear. Steve isn't one to pry, but he almost thinks he hears a familiar name on her lips. He doesn't know it, but he's blushing. She moves her gaze up, maybe over to him, maybe over to the car. He's not really sure. For a second, he thinks she's arguing, holding her body tightly. She then releases it, almost imperceptibly, the sort of motion that only someone paying close attention could perceive. Well, more than that. They'd have to know her, really know her, to see. He doesn't know it, but he's blushing. She moves her gaze up, maybe over to him, maybe over to the car. He's not really sure.

The thought makes him pause as he heads inside to pay for the gas in cash—no digital trail, just in case. He adds a pack of gum to his purchase, the kind Natasha likes. When he gets out, he presses it into her hands, and he almost sees her grin. A full-on sort, the kind you make behind the scenes, out of the spotlight because no one's watching anymore and you're free. She unwraps a piece, popping it into her mouth. Without speaking, they head into the car, dividing the gum among themselves.

"What was that about?" Steve asks as they drive out of the gas station. She blows a single, round bubble. Their stomachs keep rumbling, and most of the gas station food seemed to be left over from the 50's.

"Nothing," she dismisses. "Just insurance."

And later, maybe they do stop for lunch. It's not so much of a distraction from the mission as is that they're starving and they can't get Bucky to come back with them if they're not at one hundred percent. They practically plow through the drive-thru; Sam's surprised that the cashier didn't have to toss the food behind their speeding car.

Natasha's fries rest in the cup holder—Steve holds his drink in his hands, and she inelegantly grabs some food when she can.

"That's distracted driving, you know," Sam quips, taking a bite of his cheeseburger. He can see her small smile reflecting in the rearview mirror. She finishes the fries soon after that, and Sam pours some of his into her papery cup.

He makes the same remark when she grabs her phone again—for God's sake, they're stuck in traffic, so it's not like there's any danger and besides, she stopped a fucking alien invasion.

"Hey," she says, her voice low. Steve raises his eyebrows—clearly, she just entered full-on seduction mode. Though he's not sure if that will translate over the phone, he sits quietly, along for the ride. Sometimes he wonders if he should take lessons, just in case. He gets really tired of punching his way out of everything.

"I'm going to ask a favor of you, Maria," she continues. Sam keeps shooting the blond man a look of joyful disbelief, one that makes him grateful for their friendship. "Remember what happened in Bangkok? It's a little crass, but I need to cash in on that promise you gave me: I know we were going to go and get dinner, you know, something from Eve's Bar? How I was going to bring friends? I would have been the one dressed up? It was about eight o'clock right? Well, I'll need to take a rain check. I know we were going to have so much fun at the bar, but we can't. Can you tell your friends not to be there? I don't want them to be disappointed. Thanks. I'll talk to you later. Bye."

"Oh my God, did that—did you just…?" Sam's trying not to laugh.

"If you and Maria need some time alone after this…" Steve trails off, smirking.

"It was in code, Rogers—we had to be a bit more discrete. I couldn't outright ask her for what I wanted. We don't know how far down the rabbit hole goes. Any of her people that were there, they're going to be gone by the time we get there. We shouldn't have to worry about any outside sources interfering with our mission," Natasha tells them, even though they didn't ask. Her lips form in a smirk nearly identical to Steve's. "And what we do during our time off…well, I'm not going to feed any of your ideas."

The sun sets by the time they're even close to the prison.

"It's not even in New York," Sam frowns, crossing his arms. "Not that I'm surprised by that they're still lying, but it's all about integrity. It's things like this that make me so slow to trust." Biting back a grin, Steve gives him a sympathetic nod. His heart's been racing ever since the television turned on, and he doesn't know how to make it stop. It's kind of like the third time he tried to join the army, when he was so tiny and lost, and he just needed the ink and the approval, because without them, what was he?

"Get out of the car." Natasha wrenches him out of his thoughts, for which he is quite grateful. She parks on the outskirts of a cornfield, quietly closing her door. Steve crosses around the car to where she and Sam stand. Leaning against the car, she puts on her red high heels. They sink into the dirt a bit while she walks.

"This is a cornfield," Steve wisecracks, raising an eyebrow. "Perfect for holding Hydra agents—and those shoes."

"One minute," Natasha tells him, her lips curling into a half smile. "I need to put on my face." And she does just that, reaching into a side pocket, pulling out a filmy oval. Holding it up to her head, she presses it against her forehead, her eyes, her cheeks, until one of the councilwomen stares at them. "Much better."

"Okay," Sam nods. "I guess it's good you kept that around."

"Shhh," she tells him, not unkindly. She closes her eyes, listening for a mechanical hum. Her arms outstretched, she walks across the field blindly, stopping where the corn stands tallest. She tugs on the ear of corn, and it snaps open, revealing a keypad and a scanner.

"Got it," she mutters in another woman's voice. She types in a code, then stares into the scanner. For a minute, nothing happens, and they all wonder if they're going to be full of bullets. Instead, the machine pings, and the field begins to open up. She waves them over, and they climb down a spiraling staircase just as the field starts to close.

"Do you ever feel like you two are in an Indiana Jones movie?" Sam asks them. "I thought my suit was the epitome of cool but…"

"Every day," Steve tells him.

"So, you've seen those movies?" Natasha's descending down the stairs, three steps in front of them, not even looking back. "You know, I really feel like you'd like Tron—the original, not the new one. It'd be interesting after the whole incident when one of your enemies was a computer trying to kill us. Real life really does emulate movies."

"Maybe next week. You can make popcorn," Steve agrees. All of a sudden, she flattens herself against a wall, finger to her lips, or maybe the councilwoman's lips. Steve can't get over seeing her expressions on another face. She motions for the two of them to hide, which they do, just in time—a tall man dressed in black does a double take when he sees her.

"Councilwoman," he says in shock, "I didn't realize you would be visiting."

"That's the point of a surprise inspection," she answers curtly, pulling herself up to her full height. "I suppose this illustrates your remarkable incompetence—surely you would have noticed a discrete entrance by now. Besides, after that embarrassing break-in, I couldn't stay away from this failure of a facility."

"Yes ma'am—I mean thank you, ma'am."

"Yes, yes," she answers, bored. "I presume that I have your word my visit will be…unhindered by all clumsy attempts to maintain this facility?"

"Of course," he assures her.

"I will need you and all of your…ilk to stay out of my way. Is that understood?" She stands even taller, the heels placing her several inches above the man. He's sweating.

"I'll make sure we're out of the halls, ma'am, but what about the prisoners?"

"I'm sure your absence will make no difference. It took one man to subdue an entire wing—you mustn't overestimate yourselves. I will make an assessment, to which you will all respond accordingly. I think I will easily determine a better method with which you all may work. Again—and this time, don't contribute yet another useless question—am I understood?"

"Absolutely, ma'am—thank you, ma'am," he nods, flustered. "Please tell me if there is anything else we can do for you, ma'am."

"Leave me," she tells him imperiously. In a flurry of thanks and apologies, he departs. She waits, counting his footsteps, then counting the seconds until it's time for Steve and Sam to walk out. Without a single word from her, they've already drawn the hoods of their jackets around their faces.

"I really wish you had some more of those face-changing things," Sam laments. "With those, we'd never have to pay for dinner again. We could just be Tony Stark, like forever."

"He's overrated," Natasha replies, holding back a laugh. "Anyways, as far as I recall from my last visit, they hold the big name prisoners on the lowest level, which is accessible only by an elevator at the end of the wing. Normally, you'd need the retinal scans and voice commands of two of the main guards to get down. We'd be fine if it was only me, but I'm guessing that's not what you want to happen, Steve."

"You guessed right."

"The only other option—and this is impossible, not to mention macabre—is a blood sample from one of several important figures, one of whose face happens to be spread all over mine. So, we're in a bit of a conundrum. We might have to do some minor kidnapping."

"Of course we do," Sam sighs. "You couldn't have shared this with us earlier?"

"I didn't want you to worry."

"I'm not worried—I'm fucking terrified."

"That's good. Channel that. You'll need some motivation."

He gives Steve a long-suffering look, which the man returns. Still, they give Natasha their answers, and the three of them head off to kidnap two men. At least there are options: ten to choose from. Variety's always good. It's the spice of life or whatever.

"So, I'll find them," she tells them. "I'm going to need the two of you to hide by the elevator. After that…"

By the time she finishes the plan, it seems as though their faces are going to remain frozen in a set of intense frowns. Still, it's the best they've got, and they do exactly what she tells them.

**VI.**

"I really am sorry, ma'am," the blonde woman says. She follows behind Natasha, her creased brow almost permanently furrowed. "I promise that we are cognizant of our failure and we will do anything it takes to prevent other such incidents. We are fully responsive to all of your commands and will, of course, enact any measure you wish to occur."

"That is _nearly_ satisfactory," Natasha says, walking five steps ahead of the woman who is too afraid to catch up; she almost feels bad about the whole thing. "Please, take me to one amongst your ten. I have reason to believe that the level about which we _both_ know is breached."

"Excuse me for saying so, ma'am, but there would need to be two of letting someone down for that to happen, and everyone is fine. There's no way they'd—oh, shit. Sorry, ma'am," she blushes, "please excuse the language. I didn't think—I should have—Bello and Raines are both resting. Said they had a wicked hang—stomach bug. Throwing up all night. Wouldn't let us put any lights on. I thought it was because they didn't feel well, but they must have been hiding. Ashamed. Didn't want us to know what they let happen. I don't mean to turn on them, I just—"

"I've heard enough of your excuses," Natasha snaps. The woman winces. "Bring me to someone more competent—it's imperative. Every moment we chat is another one lost."

"Absolutely, ma'am, of course," the woman agrees. "Daniels should be in over there—Daniels, come here, now!" She flags down a bald man, who rushes over as soon as he glimpses Natasha's false face.

"Councilwoman," he gasps. Natasha's getting really tired of that, so she lets it reflect in her eyes, giving him another incentive to follow her to the elevator.

"Your prison has been compromised," she informs him tightly which is, at least, not a lie. "I will need you and—Reagan, I believe—_to let me down to the damn level_."

"Yes, ma'am, anything you wish," he promises, "but, I don't mean to be rude, what about your blood? Shouldn't that let you in automatically? Just a little prick. Quicker. Easier."

"I have a bleeding disorder," she says primly. "I would have thought you would know that as one of the foremost authorities in this prison, but I can't say I'm surprised you're just as incompetent as your contemporaries. Even Reagan knew."

The other woman doesn't even know that she's walking a little lighter now, but the man reels back.

"My deepest apologies, ma'am," he tells her earnestly. Natasha's not sure why everyone's talking to her like she's some sort of murderous fairytale queen, but she kind of likes it. She shouldn't, but she does.

"Quit prattling and take me to the damn elevator!"

They spend the rest of the walk in silence. She makes sure that she stands on their right, blocking their view the best she can, pointing them inside the elevator.

"You first," she tells Daniels, who complies.

"Daniels, Ray F.," he tells the elevator. It pings, then scans his eye, approving it. He steps away and the woman takes his place.

"Reagan, Cynthia N.," she says, keeping her voice from quavering, a little less successful than she would like. Natasha narrowly avoids sending her a sympathetic smile. As soon as her eye has been scanned, a virtual button appears on the elevator glass, and Natasha presses it. In the same second, she whips around and throws the man against the wall, knocking him right out.

"Sorry," she tells the woman, "but you're going to wake up with the worst headache." She makes quick work of the woman, just in time for Steve to pry apart the elevator doors and jump down into the elevator car, following by Steve. They hit the ground, landing painfully, bracing their knees.

Sirens begin to ring.

"Damn," Natasha mutters, spitting a hank of hair out of her face. "I was hoping the elevators couldn't be triggered. Frowning, she arranges the woman up against the wall in a sitting position. Limply, she still slumps over.

Only, there's something odd: the elevator's not stopping. Mostly to herself, she slowly notes, "…I'm not sure the sirens are for us."

"Then we need to hurry. How long do we have?" Steve asks as they reach their floor.

"Five minutes," she tells him. "There'll be some people down here, but they usually have to be ferried back and forth—that's why the elevator's so large—and they'll need time to figure this out and get reinforcements."

"So, we're worth reinforcements? I guess that's comforting," Sam says positively.

"Nice attitude," Natasha says, not even realizing she's said it. "I was down here once in '95. It'll have changed a bit, but I'm guessing they'll be at the end of the left wing—it's farthest."

"Of course it is," Sam clenches his fists. They take off into a run, Steve and Natasha bringing up the front, making sure not to stay too far ahead of Sam, just in case.

They can hear the screams halfway down the hall, but the sound of gunfire's even louder. Steve swings around behind Sam, doing his best to maneuver his shield in front of the bullets.

"I would love if these halls were tall enough to fly through!" Sam yells. When he looks back, he's too distracted to realize that Steve cans run backwards just as well as he could forwards. Instead, Sam takes out his gun and fires back at the shooters. However, they all collide when Natasha stops, standing five feet away from a dirty, unshaven man covered in other people's blood.

"Hello, James," she says amongst the crescendo of bullets.


End file.
